


idiosyncratic

by mm01



Series: // [3]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Gen, M/M, andrew is There, anyway: nothing really happens. neil has a bad day, but feel free ;), they arent interconnected really just for organization, u dont have to read the other ones to get this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm01/pseuds/mm01
Summary: He’s staring flatly at his fingers, thumbing a cigarette and breathing in its scent slowly, deliberately, quivering with the effort—it is the learned, idiosyncratic self-soothing of a neglected child.Andrew would know. He chewed his fingernails until he was eleven.





	idiosyncratic

Neil is thinking. Very, very loudly.

He has this way about him: furrowed brows, worried lip. Shoulders hunched inward and knees tucked tight against his chest in staunch solitude. He’s staring flatly at his fingers, thumbing a cigarette and breathing in its scent slowly, deliberately, quivering with the effort—it is the learned, idiosyncratic self-soothing of a neglected child. 

Andrew would know. He chewed his fingernails until he was eleven. 

It is an off day and Neil showered a half an hour too long. He scrubbed his skin raw and pink and sore, paid meticulous attention to the scars that litter the tender skin of his back and shoulders. 

He looks at Andrew with filmy gray eyes, pale and distracted, his eyelashes still heavy and wet. It is a sharp contrast from Andrew’s eidetic catalogue: he’s seen them narrowed and suspicious, lip curled back with mistrust. Blindingly wide, irritatingly earnest and open and searching. Heavy, and focused; analytical and bright; pupils blown wide, irises a round little ring; tired, half closed and dark circle-laden; brown then blue and sometimes blacked by fist or ball or wayward elbow. 

Andrew stares steadily back, unquestioning. He says nothing and pointedly leans back in his beanbag chair, averting his gaze and picking a spot on the ceiling to watch. It’s far more interesting than the muted soap on tv: when they went in, Nicky went hurriedly out. He peered back with quiet, palpable anxiety, and slid the door softly shut behind him. Smart. 

Neil does not like overt concern. 

It has taken well over a year for well-meaning busybodies to decipher the clues, which he had noticed (and exploited) within their first week of tense acquaintanceship. Renee can tell, could always tell, and she keeps her watchful distance. 

Bee would guess, Andrew knows, should Neil decide ever to give her more than the thirty antsy minutes of required quarterly sessions Palmetto necessitates, uselessly spent rehashing frantic scores and last-second wins. Neil is nothing if not entirely predictable in that if he can talk about exy, he will, and he all too frequently does. 

Today, co-captain extraordinaire was twenty minutes late to practice and tripped over a bench on his way to the locker room. He ate neither breakfast nor lunch, and drank his coffee black, and picked disinterestedly at the leftover chinese Nicky heated up for him. 

The busybodies displayed care and affection with various worried, hands-off approaches. Matt intercepted Andrew en route to his car and asked, please, oh, pretty please, would he talk to Neil and see what ever was the matter? 

Coach’s loud, abrasive demand was less gratingly obtuse: “hey, nightmare on elm street, get the fuck over here,” and a rigid jerk of the thumb. Andrew went, ever the dutiful goalie, and he listened, and then he resolved to stop listening and willed his mind still and blank. 

He is Neil’s keeper, yes he is. Andrew waves a magic wand and poof! Neil’s extended physical and emotional trauma is gone without a trace, so think the foxes. 

He does not ask Neil. 

He pours him a cup of instant coffee after an especially long run, and sits with him in relative silence while he works through Spanish verb conjugations, and doesn't poke or prod or stare with great big doe eyes heavy and expectant. 

He is near, and he is solid, and he is there. 


End file.
